The Enemy of My Enemy
by Laura Mayfair
Summary: Laura makes a startling discovery about Tom Zarek on New Caprica.


Laura traipsed through the rain and wind. Damp red hair fanned across her face and she brushed it away, quickening her pace. The rain was heavy but her step was light. She clutched a small brown satchel under her faded windbreaker, holding it against her chest to keep its contents dry. Tom would laugh at the scones that she was bringing him, more like hard mis-shapen rounds of dough. Of course, she'd blame _him_ for the results of her baking. The recipe he'd given her was likely faulty, she'd say. They'd argue as he put the kettle on and she'd clear the stack of books off his table. Tom would be pleasantly surprised by the small pouch of instant coffee that she'd place in his hand, a little bit of agri-ship bounty. Maybe Baltar didn't know how to run things, maybe society was crumbling to pieces - but at least they had coffee.

Besides the coffee, Laura also had a little gift for him. Last week Tom had cut his lip on his one and only coffee mug. Laura had been quick to dampen a towel with water, handing it to him and shaking her head while he'd held it against his mouth. His pouty expression had reminded her of her school children's woeful looks when they scraped a knee at recess.

"I told you that one of these days...," she'd said.

Tom had grinned. "Didn't anyone ever teach you not to say 'I told you so?'"

She continued her mock lecture with an amused smile. "If you'd listened - "

"Are you gonna come over here and kiss it better?" he'd asked her. He puckered his lips in her direction and mimed a kiss.

Laura had crossed her arms over her chest and had offered him a pointed glare. "I'm not kissing you today, Mr. Zarek. Or any other day for that matter," she'd added quickly before he could make the suggestion.

So when Laura had seen the pristine blue mug at the marketplace that morning, she'd bought it for Tom, haggling the seller down to a very good price. She was pleased with her purchases and a little bit excited with the joyous prospect of giving someone a gift, even if it was Tom Zarek. Maybe _because_ it was Tom Zarek, she mused, a little taken aback by the thought.

She wasn't able to contemplate the notion any further because a peculiar sight greeted Laura as she reached Tom's tent. Scattered pages of a book whipped and crackled around in the high wind. They littered the ground, such a stark white against the dark mud. She caught one in her hand but couldn't read it. The smeared ink distorted the words into illegible blotches. Tom's tent flap was open, which didn't make sense given the unruly weather. Laura hurried inside.

The interior of Tom's tent was a mess of debris. The nightstand was turned over on its side, his lantern broken beside it. A couple of feet away, she noticed his beloved copy of the _Oresteia_, face down on its belly like a beached whale. The cover was torn, the title barely readable with all of the rips. He loved that book and now it existed only as ruined scraps on a dirty floor. The mattress of his cot was rolled and overturned, blankets askew. The mug that he'd cut his lip on, the one that she'd replaced, now lay in shattered black pieces on the floor of the tent. She'd never noticed before how sparse his quarters were, what few belongings he possessed. The place had obviously been ransacked but there wasn't really much to ransack.

A shadow appeared in the doorway of the tent, its steps faltering, shuffling. But Laura was too outraged to be afraid. No one had the right -

"Tom?"

The voice laughed, a dry feminine laugh, and the shadow glided into view. It was Ellen Tigh. She clasped a mug in both hands. It probably contained something stronger than tea, given her swaying gait.

"He's gone, Laura. They came about two hours ago. There were four of them. Wearing those godsdamned masks." She took a long drink from her cup with hands that shook. "Frakking cowards."

Laura knelt down and picked up one of Tom's shoes, matching it to its mate, just to have something to do. She wondered, absurdly, if he had another pair, or if they'd taken him barefoot.

She looked up at Ellen, palms pressed against the floor. "Two weeks now since Colonel Tigh -"

Ellen interrupted the half formed question, her voice bitter with rage, at once feral and broken. "Two weeks and three days."

"Gods," breathed Laura.

"He fought them," said Ellen softly. She knelt down and offered Laura a sip from her mug but she shook her head. Ellen shrugged. Her words slid into one another, the syllables thick - but even drunk, Ellen's voice still carried that silken gloss. "He wouldn't stop talking and yelling all the way into the transport. He's a feisty one, your Mr. Zarek."

"He's not _my_ anything, Ellen," said Laura.

Ellen nodded at her but it was clear she didn't believe it. She looked at Laura with something that resembled pity, taking one of her hands in hers and squeezing it."If you say so, honey."

"Friends," mouthed Laura after a pause. She allowed her lips to form the word but she didn't vocalize it. She gripped Ellen's hand a little tighter. A terrible lump dug and clutched at her throat. "Friends," she managed finally in startled surprise, "We were friends."


End file.
